"Yes."
"That's his handwriting."
"Yes."
"Why is my grandfather's handwriting on your wall?"
Mr. Tran looked at the lid for a long time.
"Another day," he said. "Today you have a boat to find. It's green now. Go find it."
* * *
Chief Batiste listened to all of it with her glasses on and her hands flat on her desk, and when he was done she sat for a while without saying anything. Outside her window a shrimp boat was coming in, gulls wheeling over her like a torn paper bag in the wind.
"He told you about the break-in," she said finally. "Just like that."
"He said he hadn't reported it because—" Wade stopped.
"Because who would he report it to." The chief nodded slowly. "Yeah. I've heard that sentence before. I've heard it in this town and I heard it in the last town and I expect I'll hear it in the next one." She took off her glasses. "You know what, Wade? Write that down. Put it in your report, exactly how he said it. I want it on paper with this department's letterhead on top."
They amended the bulletin before lunch. STOLEN VESSEL, 18' CAROLINA SKIFF, WHITE HULL. STRIPE MAY HAVE BEEN REPAINTED—POSSIBLY DARK GREEN, BRUSH-APPLIED. CHECK UNDER STRIPE FOR NAVY. YAMAHA F90, SERIAL TO FOLLOW. Wade read it over twice before he sent it out to every agency between Gulfport and Pensacola, and then, on a hunch, to the marine units and the boat dealers and the three big self-storage outfits off the interstate, because a man who had just stolen a boat and painted it had to keep it somewhere while the paint dried.
The carrier called back at two. The prepaid phone had been activated at 3:58 on the morning of the call, and the card had been bought nineteen minutes earlier, with cash, at the Gas-N-Go on Highway 90 at the Bayou Clement exit.